Cathy Jordan sat in front of the goose-neck microphone, a plastic cup of water near her right hand. Across the broad desk, the morning presenter picked his way through several cassettes before finding the trail for that evening's live broadcast from Mansfield Civic Centre and slotting it into place. A recording of
'Up, Up and Away' by the Fifth Dimension was coming to an end. He had already checked Cathy's voice for level.
'More music later. But now I've been joined here in the studio by the American crime writer Cathy Jordan, one of the people most responsible for the amazing increase in the popularity of women in this field. Good morning, Cathy.'
'Hi.'
Tell me, Cathy, while it's true that your books have proved almost as popular here as back home in the States, this hasn't been without some opposition. I believe, for instance, there was an incident yesterday involving some paint. '
Twenty-four The questions didn't finish there.
Even without the additional publicity, the hotel's principal convention room would have been full for Cathy Jordan's evening panel, but, as things had developed, it was close to overflowing.
Delegates who had been unable to get seats were standing at both back and sides, or leaning against ledges and walls; several more were sitting cross-legged between the front row and the platform. Cathy, herself, was sitting to the left of Maxim Jakubowski, the chairman; the young Scottish writer, ian Rankin, sat, toying with his water glass, alongside her. On the chairman's right, Dorothy Birdwell and the tall figure of South Londoner and ex- Who roadie. Mark Timlin, sat in unlikely alliance.
'Excuse me, I have a question…' The voice was articulate, middle-class, used to making itself heard.
'I have a question for Ms Jordan…' From the chair, Jakubowski leaned forward and acknowledged the speaker from the floor.
The woman was standing now, a few seats in from the central aisle near the back of the room rimless glasses, greying hair pulled back, a perfectly unexceptional print dress. Alongside Jakubowski, Cathy Jordan had poured water into her glass; everything had been going smoothly up to now, as predictable as discussions on the future of crime fiction tended to be.
'I should like to ask Ms Jordan if she shares my concerns about the way women are increasingly being represented in crime fiction?'
Cathy sipped her water and counted to ten. ian Rankin coughed and winked.
'Here we go,' he whispered.
Cathy set down her glass.
'Well,' she said, 'doesn't that depend on what those concerns are? '
'Those of most women.'
'Most women?'
Yes. '
There was an uneasy stirring amongst sections of the audience; some, having heard of the bookshop incident, had come anticipating conflict and so far had been disappointed, others were inwardly flinching, steeling themselves against embarrassment.
Cathy took her time, waiting until the hum of expectation had faded into an expectant silence.
'Now I don't know, of course, how you're calibrating ' most'. I mean, is that most women in this country? This city? Or are you claiming to speak for most women in this room?' She paused and looked slowly around and heard a few disclaimers from amongst the crowd.
'Maybe, you mean most of your own little circle of friends?'
There was a sprinkling of laughter, mostly self-conscious, during which the questioner stepped out into the aisle. For the first time, Cathy caught Man us Gooding's eye. He was sitting four rows back, staring not at Dorothy Birdwell, but at her, staring hard.
^No,' the questioner was replying, her voice louder now, more openly aggressive.
'I mean any women. All women.'
Again there were mumbles of dissent, but not many, not enough to deflect shouts of acclamation which seemed to come strategically from around the room. Cathy glanced towards the chairman, who un demonstratively shook his head, happy to let things proceed.
'I'm speaking for any woman who has any sense of her own strength or dignity, her own independence or sexuality…'
'Oh, come on!' Cathy Jordan said.
'Spare us the speeches.'
'. and who could not fail to be appalled and threatened by the excessively violent way. '
'Always did like a bit of violence myself,' Timlin said, as much to himself as anyone else.
Dorothy Birdwell, much like the Dormouse in Alice, seemed to be sleeping.
'. the violent ways in which you and others like you, serve up women as a series of passive victims at the hands of men. '
'Hang on a minute now,' Cathy protested, as ian Rankin leaned towards her with a few words of encouragement.
Amongst the growing hubbub, a handful of people were heading for the exits and a number of women half a dozen now, several others prepared to join them were on their feet and pointing towards the platform.
'I intend to make my point…'
'You made your point.' Cathy said, louder now, close to losing her temper.
'The same old tired point I've heard half a hundred times before. Women as victims. Poor damned women! What is the matter with you? Don't you live in the real world?'
Some of those standing had begun a slow hand clap drowning Cathy's words. The expression on the questioner's face was a satisfied sneer.
Marius had still not taken his eyes from Cathy's face.
'Pick up a paper,' Cathy said into the din, so close to the microphone that it distorted her voice.
'Any paper, switch on the news^ what do you see? Women are victims. You think I invented that?
You think I made it happen? '
'Yes!' they chorused back.
'Yes!'
Cathy Jordan sat back with the gasp of mock surprise and shook her head.
'Every time you attack a woman in your books…' another voice from another part of die room.
'Every time you rape, or kill, or maim…'
'Rape? '
Yes, you. You! You! You! '
Beside Cathy, Ian Rankin was shaking his head in a mixture of bewilderment and anger, and at the far end of the table. Mark Timlin was smiling happily. Dorothy Birdwell had awoken and, like the Dormouse in Alice, was looking around in dazed surprise. The chairman tapped a warning on the end of his microphone, but to no avail.
'Every time you do those things, one woman to another…'
Cathy Jordan was on her feet, pointing.
'I do not do those things.'
'Yes, you do!' It was the original questioner, closer to the stage now and pointing.
'And as long as you go on perpetrating this myth of female weakness, it will go on happening.'
'That's a crock of shit!'
'Is it? Is it, Ms Jordan? Well, I hope next time you open your paper and read about some poor fifteen-year- old, or some old woman of eighty being raped and beaten, you should think about that a little more carefully.'
'Jesus!' said Cathy, slamming back down into her chair.
'I don't believe this is happening.'
'All right,' Jakubowski said, raising both hands in an appeal for calm.
'Thank you very much, thank you very much indeed. I'm sure we all appreciate your point, but now I feel we should move on. Yes, thank you, there's someone over there…'
